Warning: This chapter contains a few horrid details on murder. A warning to those who don't like gore and certainly a lot of blood.

Otherwise, read on and enjoy the chapter!

Chapter 14

The quiet five days of recovery had been far too long to John's liking. While the fact that Sherlock was back kept him satisfied, staying in the walls of 221B for so long became rather difficult to bear. He stuck around on the morning of the fifth day, having to watch the news just to figure out what day it was. Friday, it would be a quiet day, which was good. He waited for the usual appearance of Sherlock wondering into the kitchen, pretending to ignore him and as he wrote a shopping list that he did pay some attention to. But he always looked sideways to check him, to see how the wounds looked from afar, how obvious the bruises were. He even checked how he walked, which was improving from the loud shuffling of the first day. Once that had ended, John couldn't stay around any longer.

He checked the cupboards, noted down things to get and left, closing all doors and locking the front door properly, even those Mrs Hudson was staying in. He gave the raven by the window an unneeded scowl before heading to the nearest Tesco.

Chilly October air brushed against his face as the small wind cut through the streets in his return back. John was thankful for the list as he kept blanking out while scanning the shelves, forgetting where he was for a moment until he checked the crumpled list in his hands. By the end of his little journey around the shop, a streak of luck came about, as a flirtatious smile had been exchanged between him and a suspected new cashier. Maybe the fact he no longer had majorly troubling thoughts on his mind had changed a look in his eyes. He would have tried to start some talk, since he hadn't had much communication with anyone, but he wanted to get back to the flat as soon as possible. Even now the man got in the way of John's attempts at possible relationships.

Despite the change in wind, the raven still perched outside the window, shaking its wings a little to stay warm. The sun was nearly down, so John suspected it would soon retreat like it had been doing for the past few days. He unlocked the door, expecting silence. It wasn't quite silent. The sound was small, very, very small. He wasn't sure if it was his mind playing tricks on him, but since he couldn't identify the sound he headed upstairs anyway. The rustling bags blocked out the sound and he opened the door to find quite a surprise. With his knees covering the bottom of his face and hugging, or more clutching, his chest was Sherlock, sat curled up in his armchair in the dark with only the light of the TV illuminating him. John wanted to say something, to check if he was alright, but he continued his plan and walked straight to the kitchen.

Sherlock's eyes did drift in his direction, but tried to retaliate at John's actions by also ignoring him and focusing on the news. At least John suspected that was what he was doing. The bags were placed on the counter and he started the long task of unpacking everything to its correct cupboard area and designated space in the fridge. There were glances towards the dark figure in the chair, but he remained motionless and uninterested. John sighed and focused on the task at hand, switching on lights as he went along, but not the ones outside the kitchen. It seemed Sherlock had become a sort of vampire in the past few months.

It was just after that thought, when John was left with two bags left to empty, did he reach for something in the bag to his right and saw a hand in the way, making him freeze.

"What did you buy?" a croaky voice uttered. But not seeing a face made John, once again, jump out of his skin. Slamming his hands on the counter while gritting his teeth, the figure flinched and took a step back like a frightened animal. Regret washed his eyes and guilt spread across his face. John looked round at those features on Sherlock, who looked at the floor. "Sorry…" That was all he whispered, but John didn't want to argue.

"You don't have to say sorry," he said, trying to be kind, but he was talking to a wall. He swallowed hard, turned and pointed a finger at Sherlock. He said it the bluntest way he could. "Don't do that." For once a small sign of a smile appeared as the corner of Sherlock's lip curled. But it depleted as Sherlock continued to watch John emptying the plastic bags, making John grow rather uncomfortable and become agitated. He grumbled something under his breath and looked him in the eyes. "What's wrong?"

"I didn't know where you'd gone," Sherlock mumbled. He sounded like a scared child who had just been found by his parents after wondering around lost for several minutes. He hated the childish side of Sherlock sometimes, but then he knew it only appeared when something was majorly wrong. "I got worried."

"Well I'm back now, so go do whatever you were doing. Sleep, take some food, or watch the TV," John suggested calmly. He didn't look him in the eyes though, so he didn't see the sheer pain in Sherlock's tired, clouded eyes.

"John…" he mumbled. He held his frustration far away and turned, ready to tell him to go away and leave him to sort everything out, but he was too stunned to even blink at what happened next.

"Sherlo-" The arms hugging him didn't let go, only grew tighter, and there was a tired head on his shoulder. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"I'm so sorry…" Those were the muffled words that came from his shoulder. He didn't know if this was genuine or from exhaustion, but John couldn't help feel like he was breathing in water. Drowning under shame, disappointed in himself for not seeing why Sherlock was in such a state. The man had left him for three years, left him with so many troubles, returned in a horrid state and sent panic among not just John but the others. And this seemed the only way that Sherlock could get an apology so great to mean something to John. He could be kinder to Molly, not decorate the flats' walls with bullets for Mrs Hudson, simply give a smile towards Mycroft and help Lestrade with anything major. But John knew that after being at the bottom of the hospital, being the one to take the heaviest blow, that it must have been written all over his face how much pain it caused him. Sherlock could read people like a book, and he knew what pain John was hiding, despite his calm over the past few days. He just hadn't picked up the fact that John had already forgiven him, or at least he thought he had.

But he also had to apologise. For his actions, for the arguments, for the horrid behaviour towards him, for the chase, for every last horrid word before the Fall. He moved his arms the best he could under his flatmate's grip and hugged back. While John wanted to think it was awkward, he couldn't help but feel sorry, especially when he had an inkling that Sherlock, despite the man's proud nature, was silently sobbing on his shoulder.

It was after a minute that John really did notice the awkward factor and somehow pushed Sherlock away. He was red eyed, certainly tired and apparently on wobbly legs, since he swayed when John wasn't gripping his arms by his sides. It was like staring into the eyes of a sad puppy and John wanted to tell him to grow up and rest, but all anger had simply been extinguished with sorrow. He sighed at the ceiling and looked Sherlock dead in the eyes.

"Go sit and I'll bring over some food, alright?" He turned him around and gave him a light push away, stumbling away and going back to curling up in the seat. John rolled his eyes, finished his task and did what he said he'd do. It was the strangest TV dinner he'd had to date.

Saturday, the fifth day of the return, and both men were wondering the flat. If wondering counts as John still staring at his laptop and checking the transcript while Sherlock sat opposite him watching TV on low volume or reading a book, still sitting curled up and at least one arm hugging his healing chest. His face was certainly less bruised, but in the light of day he still looked like trash. John brought him food and a drink when he requested, both ignoring each other but the occasional question escaping Sherlock's mouth. It was usually the whereabouts of his research and science equipment, but otherwise silence in the flat and John peeping at the now three ravens outside. They were bunched together in the cold air, each looking in different directions like they were on watch, all clean and quiet.

It was later, as John sat at his desk reading through horrid bills and similarly boring stuff while Sherlock was watching yet more news that a question escaped his own lips.

"Why haven't you changed? I thought you would have cleaned yourself up by now." He looked at Sherlock to see the back of his head, hair grown out and badly cut. He shuffled in the seat.

"I didn't check to see if you still possessed my clothes," he answered, sounding bored and choked, simply from the pain still in his system. He'd forgotten to take his painkillers that morning. John huffed and continued reading.

"Could you please change at some point? It's not exactly hygienic," John replied, his nose twitching at the smell.

"Why should it matter to you? You haven't been wearing these clothes for two years…" That was the grumbled reply. John bit his lip thinking about it. He wouldn't have been able to purchase new clothes, simply picking what he could from the street to hide his appearance. He was basically homeless and John wasn't exactly being kind about it. But he didn't want to drop the atmosphere in a tub of the blues.

"Because you bloody stink." He could practically hear Sherlock's muscles moving into a smile.

It was late evening when they heard Mrs Hudson open the front door after five very loud knocks, and Lestrade walked up the stairs. He only saw John at first since the room was still rather dark, but when he saw the TV turn a little brighter and show Sherlock's face in the chair did he jump a little. But Sherlock paid no interest, appearing consumed by the television and the crap shows being played. Old past times die hard?

"Evening, you two. I see your back on your feet?" Lestrade greeted, and then aiming the question towards Sherlock. He looked up, but then went back to the TV, shuffling on the spot and clutching his chest tighter. John, still sat at the desk while sorting out some online banking malarkey on his laptop, rolled his eyes and turned on his seat towards Lestrade.

"You alright, Greg?" John asked. Lestrade looked again at Sherlock, a hint of desperation in his eyes.

"Not good. A case came up," he announced, making Sherlock avert his gaze again, but only for a second. John lost his smile and stood up, genuine interest.

"Then why are you here? Is it serious?" John asked. Lestrade nearly laughed. "You want us to come and look?"

"I think I'm really going to need some help with this one, just from the description on the phone. I'd appreciate Sherlock coming round and-"

"No." Both turned at Sherlock, not even looking at them after his solid answer. John clenched his fists a little. It wasn't like Sherlock to avoid cases, but then anger beat worry. Sherlock should be on his feet, trying to get back around helping his friends. His lack of signs on pain gave no excuse to be avoiding the case.

"Sherlock, we have to go," John said, trying to keep his calm but anger seeped through again. Sherlock turned his eyes, certainly more chilling in the dark, as he glared.

"No. My answer is final." He turned back to the TV. Lestrade looked at John.

"Could you at least come along? Any outside opinion would be appreciated with this case," Lestrade requested. John looked round at the man curled up in the seat being an arrogant child and nodded. They headed for the stairs, John missing Sherlock's eyes following him, and grabbed his coat as Lestrade started explaining the call.

"A few streets not far away, group of kids discovered the bodies and it goes far over the boundary of brutal." John pulled his coat on down the stairs.

"Two bodies?"

"So far it's been categorised as a quadruple homicide," Lestrade answered in the lobby, and that was when the reaction occurred.

"JOHN!" He turned at the shout of his name and heard a crashing in the floor above. "Wait!" A smile was immediately exchanged between the two in the lobby and they headed for the door when running feet went across the flat, to the hallway, to a bedroom, a slamming door, back down the hallway and nearing the stairs. They waited outside as Sherlock practically tumbled down the stairs, Mrs Hudson appearing to investigate, all seeing Sherlock straighten himself out, now sporting a wore down leather jacket, much more appropriate in October at that late hour. "Changed my mind."

"We couldn't tell, glad you could catch up," Lestrade mocked. John had to desperately hold back the inflating bundle of laughter in his chest as Sherlock glared at Lestrade but went off to flag down a taxi, while the detective inspector drove off ahead, quickly shouting the destination to him. Mrs Hudson closed the door behind Sherlock as he gave a cheerful greeting to her, even a smile added on. As a taxi pulled over, the three ravens bunched up by the window watched Sherlock move towards the taxi and then flew off.

"Okay, why'd you follow?" John asked, the cab chugging along, the cabbie in his own world while driving along and Sherlock looking out the window at the lights streaming past, his face hidden under the shadow of the darkened cab and his now pulled up hood. Sherlock turned in surprise at the break of the silence, disturbed from his own thoughts. He grumbled something inaudible, not wanting John to properly hear. John tried to think of another question and looked at Sherlock. "Where'd you get the jacket?"

"It was a lucky night. Mid-November, some fool was generous enough to give it to me, didn't recognise who I was thankfully. Good winter coat." John knew that Sherlock was secretly grateful for life at the person, but surprised that it was what Sherlock added to his minimal wardrobe to fight the cold days and even colder nights.

"Are you going to answer my first question?" John tried again and he heard a frustrated sigh.

"I heard Lestrade mention what the case was and I got interested."

"Lies." Sherlock gave him a stabbing look from the corner of his eye, but focused on the changing images outside.

"Fine. I didn't want to stay at the flat alone. Too dangerous." John screwed up his face in confusion and then turned to him.

"This is more dangerous than staying at home!" John plainly argued. Sherlock stayed silent for a moment.

"That's why I didn't want you to go alone." It felt like an arrow ripping through his lungs and caused the silence between them to drag on.

A street away from the flashing lights of police cars, the cab pulled up and let them exit, John handing over the money while Sherlock looked around and ended up staring at the sky. A cold but cloudless night, the stars bright, white and glistening in the cold like frost in the sky, a beauty that Sherlock was admiring, or at least appeared to be. John wondered if he'd attempted to learn some form of astronomy during the past few years.

Ahead, Lestrade had parked his car and was walking over to them, having told the other officers he was greeting John, not the figure that they failed to see in the dark street. John could just make out the silhouette of Donovan standing at the yellow crime scene tape.

"You'll have to stay close with me, but the others will hopefully let you in without argument. As for you Sherlock, it might be a little more difficult," Lestrade explained. John wasn't exactly hated by the entire police force in London, and he wasn't meant to be dead either. Sherlock looked around at the empty street. The main street wasn't far away, but the crime scene was closer. Old houses, some even left empty, with overgrowing gardens and decomposing rubbish for all to see. An alley every three houses, one holding a rusting fire escape. Sherlock's eyes lit up as he looked ahead at the crime scene.

"Where were they found? The bodies?" he asked hesitantly.

"Bunch of kids found them on the second floor of an abandoned house over there." Lestrade pointed to the house and Sherlock squinted, trying to make out the house over the flashing lights. John knew he'd seen what he wanted when a grin appeared.

"If the windows at the back aren't bordered up like the ones on the bottom floor, I should be able to climb in. There's back alleys around here, and the garden fences shouldn't be too difficult to scale." John stared in surprise and Lestrade was more than a little taken aback.

"You'll climb? Sherlock, you're badly hurt! You shouldn't be climbing a fence, let alone scaling a building!" John argued and Sherlock simply smiled back.

"I shouldn't have been climbing after the assault outside the pub. And what happened there?" John gave a (rather amusing) frustrated pout as Sherlock wondered away across the street to an alley. Lestrade coughed and led John over to the yellow tape and a suspicious Donovan. She let John pass and Lestrade led the way through several tiny groups of police officers, eventually reaching the stairs of the dank house. The stench of mould drifted through the air, avalanches of dust visible in the overly-bright lights placed throughout the house. The windows on the bottom floor were completely blocked up with nailed planks and remainders of glass, but John had seen from outside that the wood was crumbling, and not so many had been nailed on the second floor. They climbed the stairs, and a long landing led to a closed door at the end. Dark wood, splintered at the bottom and the lock broken. Had it been the kids who broke it?

Lestrade led the way in, the need for the usual blue overalls overlooked as Lestrade ordered the officers upstairs to leave for a while. John examined the surrounding area more closely. Sherlock certainly wasn't going to get the chance to look here, so he may as well try to spot something now before being put inside a room with the dead bodies. The carpet had been ripped up long ago, stains visible on the under layer. Large patches of brown and a mould lining the side. But among this were black scuff marks and… was it drops of blood? He wanted to look closer but Lestrade ordered him into the room.

A room of bodies, or what was left of some of them.

"Oh God..." John exclaimed, Lestrade losing his foot a little at the sight. He must have heard details over the phone or when he arrived, but this was his first time seeing the site too. Four victims, blood everywhere. As Lestrade closed the door there was a knock at the only window in the room. It was at the back of the house, the nails weak and looking easy to move. John went over and carefully pulled them off, trying to be quiet to not alarm the officers downstairs. Sherlock climbed through the broken glass and walked round the edge of the room, examining the scene, but even he was struggling to hold himself together in the first few seconds of seeing the sight. There was a silence among them, all taking in the scene. John flinched when Sherlock began looking closer, kneeling to look into the lifeless eyes of the victims and examine the lethal wounds that killed them. It was when he looked towards the maze of large wooden furniture that he said something rather worrying.

"There's a fifth."

...

Finding his way to the back of the house was simple with the lights glaring through the dark windows, jumping over fence even easier, but then he got to the house itself. He still ached from the assassins beating and being cooped up in bed for four days, but he paid attention to any pain in his chest. That was the most lethal and sensitive of his injuries, even the one in his thigh had healed up. Stitches had been applied to almost every cut, but the large knife had left a horrid, but not scar-worthy mark and it wasn't going to heal without causing pain.

He climbed the house, the bricks sticking out at different points and the window ledges perfect for climbing. His bite wound from the aggravated canine stung, but he buried the pain. He kept forgetting that wound, but it still wasn't as bad as his chest, which simply made his breathing feel strangely heavy. He stayed ducked under the window until he heard the door close, sure only his friends were in the room. A knock at the wooden planks and John cleared the entrance for him. Only when he climbed through the window did he take in the scene. He'd seen similar with single bodies, but not a number this large. This type of death still made him shudder for a moment, but he was limited for time and had to focus.

It was a large room, appearing smaller due to the strange pile up and assortment of wooden furniture, dressers, bookshelves, wardrobes, and the latter, all at the back. In the cleared space of the room were the four bodies, two not completely bodies. He moved closer, avoiding the pool of blood nearly enveloping the wooden floor, studying what he guessed to be the first victim. A young woman, spread out on the floor near the window. He placed her in the age group of mid-twenties; smartly dressed from what clothing he could see that wasn't plastered in red. Her death would seem obvious from the neatly cut opening in her chest, from collarbone to naval, spread open to reveal her cracked ribcage. But the blood pattern didn't fit, instead deciding her death was due to the bruising around her neck. Strangled to stop possibly her screaming?

The next body was a scrawny middle-aged man, whose hands were hung from the ceiling, his body in a pyramid shape, his knees and feet together under his body. There was bruising around his head from both sides of the mouth, rope tied to only allow muffled and limiting noises. Rope burn marks around his wrists answered what he'd been restrained with before death, but now a thin metal bar went through his wrists, a short chain in the centre attached to the ceiling. Blood had dried on his arms. That wasn't his death. The marks under his chin showed where his head had been pulled back, fingernails digging in to scratch skin, as the killer sliced open the neck, a perfectly straight line, leaving a waterfall of blood soaking the front. He couldn't tell if some of the blood around the neck had shifted for some reason… It looked like it had been licked. Surely not?

Victim number three. Another male, a university student, a whiff of alcohol suggested partying. At this hour he might have been 'bar hopping', but that drunken stupor had ended with kidnap and now death. Now he was a dead body in an abandoned house. Some of a body anyway. Half his face and been beaten to a new shape, but he was still alive afterwards. Fingers missing, toes missing after shoes had been removed. They weren't clean cuts either. Not a knife, not blown off with a gun. They had been ripped off after, what Sherlock he see to be bite marks. He looked around, hoping that it had been a deranged canine to do so, but no paw prints marked the pool of blood and the marks didn't fit on the skin. There were more on his limbs and body, chunks of flesh missing. Pure terror must have left him dead with terrified, open eyes. The bite marks… They were… human. No, it couldn't be cannibalism. Could it? Only one case in the past few months had contained cannibalism, and that was when Danger first appeared. Danger couldn't be left to roam the streets if not caught by the police. And even then, what would the police do when they found out that Danger only looked human?

Fourth and final victim, a business man, in his mid-twenties like the first and was easily identified to have died with his hands tied, gagged, and large chunks taken out of his wrists and neck. Sherlock, starting to become slightly scared at the possibility of Danger, stood and observed the entire scene. There weren't any links between these people. They didn't know each other. He hoped this wasn't some horrid link to believing in him. Nonetheless he continued looking at the details. Among the blood was rope. That was what was used to restrain these people. There was more than enough to gag the woman by the window, but maybe it wasn't enough to silence the screams. He walked around, checking the view for more, signs of struggle, and times of death. He stepped over the trail of blood leading out into the furniture maze and looked at the shades of blood. The first kill was about four hours ago. He saw the scratches in the wall, scuff marks on the floor. But there were more than thought for four abducted people. A half an hour gap between each killing, so the killer could torture them all with the sight of each one being picked off? Then the horrid truth unfolded. All from one simple observation he nearly overlooked. The trail of blood between his feet wasn't heading into the maze of furniture, it was heading out.

"There's a fifth." John and Lestrade looked up in horror at his quiet announcement. He looked around behind him, seeing the mass of wardrobes and dressers, the lack of the light and the kingdom of shadows. He wondered, there were no knives or guns left here, none found nearby, that maybe… But he needed a sign.

"We need to look for them. Where are they!?" Lestrade exclaimed in worry and Sherlock held up a hand to silence them both when he realised it. The killer had every chance of still being here. Because the trickle of blood wasn't just fresh. If Danger was the killer, then it wouldn't have left until all blood stained the floor and more flesh devoured. Danger was hiding.

"The killers still here," he whispered to them as they walked over. Lestrade withdrew his gun and Sherlock, holding his breath, led the way, holding his hand up again to inform them of waiting until he gave a sign. He snuck into the shadows. The gaps were tiny, narrow, and hard to navigate. He could easily make his path easier to steer, but that would involve moving the objects, if one wardrobe got knocked over it would be a giant version of dominos, and with a high chance of someone getting badly hurt. The light quickly disappeared as he made for the centre, each step lightly placed to avoid creaking.

There was a noise, shuffling on wood. Sherlock pressed against one of the wardrobes, moving even more slowly. The shuffling stopped and he looked around the corner. In a circle of dressers he saw her. A young woman, also a university student; terrified, black tears of mascara, restrained with her wrists and ankles tied with rope and a piece of cloth silencing her. It didn't seem to be needed, as the shock had left her in silence. Blood was trickling to the scratches on her shoulders, legs and two across her neck. It was a miracle for her the blood had reached the main area, or she may not have been discovered for a long time. Sherlock climbed over the dresser and knelt in front of her, placing a finger to his lips, asking her to be silent. She nodded her head through the trembling as he undid the gag, letting her breath normally, but she did so slowly and quietly again.

'Where's the killer?' he mouthed, cupping her cheek to reassure he wasn't going to harm her. She looked away from his pale eyes and behind him. He turned around and saw a wall of wardrobes. Hidden behind there, the girl seemed sure. 'Wait here. Help will come.' She nodded in understanding as he undid the rope around her wrists and ankles. She curled up into a tight ball, trembling uncontrollably as he climbed back over and further into the maze to get in front of the wardrobes.

There was a turning, that's what he could feel anyway, as he was relying on touch more in the utter darkness. He looked back. The light of the main area was far enough, the others far enough away. He looked back, blinked, and the darkness was no longer his foe when seen through the darkened eyes. But then another form of help arrived. It was the voices, the whispering voices, speaking about something around the corner ahead, something about moving. Sherlock took a step forward, missing the turning as he tried to figure out the message from the voices, but then the figure, illuminated in red and black through his darkened eyes, covered his view until he was kicked off course.

Banging wood and creaking crashes, losing focus is the eyes that see through the dark. He was able to stop a bookshelf crushing his chest and slid out from underneath to follow the killer. He was waiting for him and slammed a large foot onto his left shoulder. If it has been his right he would have cried in pain. As the killer ran through the toppling maze, he tried to grab his ankle from the ground but failed. He scrambled to his feet, sprinting past the now empty space of where captive number five had been hiding, trying to climb over the fallen furniture and get to Danger before it got to his friends.

He jumped the final metre and slammed the killer to the ground, just before reaching the horrid blood pool. Sherlock was about to pull his arm back to pin him down, but the same arm jerked back and an elbow collided with his bruised chest. He couldn't help but fall back as Danger barged past the two stunned men and headed for the door. Sherlock was again on his feet, grabbing the killer's shoulders as he leapt over the blood, but Danger spun round and grabbed his neck. Then he was thrown through the door, shattering the wood, and sliding across the landing. The shadow of Danger flew over him, barging through officer, jumping from the landing and fleeing.

Two pairs of arms helped him up but he spun round trying to find the killer. Officers looked up in shock, surprise, confusion, some even thinking he was a suspect. Only when Lestrade gave the order to chase the first man who was the killer and John had helped the girl from the room to a female officer at the end of the hall did Sherlock jump the landing himself and make for the door.

Danger couldn't escape. Danger needed to be arrested or better killed. Danger held answers he needed. Danger was going to be hunted.

And Smoke was in the air.